“It’s too cold to work in the garden on the sea side of the house,” warned Chris, opening the door for me as my hands were full with trays of plants. “There’s a terrific wind this side.”

The wind nearly tore the door off and my long hair whipped my face. I wished I had put my hair in a ponytail but it was too late – my hands were already covered in soil and I wasn’t going to make yet another trip back up and down stairs. I would manage.

The digging was hard work, not so much because of the hard earth (in fact, owing to all the rain it was softer than I had expected) but more to do with the tough couch-grass that had grown over the flower beds during the past nine months; the clumps of couch, three or four inches thick (including the network of knotted roots), resisted any half-hearted efforts with the spade aimed straight down and all my weight on the top. It required a certain knack and strength, and ability to bend at the knees and strike almost horizontally in order for the grass to yield. Before long, in spite of the cold wind and no sleeves, I was quite hot, and Chris’s words made me smile.

The wind tossed my hair forwards, sidewards, this way and that, into a tangled mass that sometimes made it hard for me to see what I was doing; I waved my hair back with a forearm, uselessly, because the wind was relentless. After a while I became accustomed to the wind and it no longer bothered me; in fact, it was exhilarating.

The first bed had been turned over and freed of the grass and roots when suddenly it struck me how lucky I am to have my own bit of earth (and our house).

“Thank you God,” I said aloud.

Then I laughed because I don’t often give thanks to God, aloud or otherwise. I thought of the poem you often see on plaques in garden centres – “You’re closer to God’s heart in a garden than any place else on earth…” – and I found myself agreeing with it. I’m not a religious person but since my father died… well, a part of me cannot accept the finality. As I watched my hands and feet work with the spade I remembered Dad teaching me how to dig the soil on my allotment – our allotments were side by side – and how to rake it to level the ground and make the soil fine.

My father would not have called himself a religious man. His favourite poem was Abou Ben Adhem by James Henry Leigh Hunt (which I shall paste below). It suited him well.

I heard someone say recently that a love of gardening is a sign of getting older; others laughed in agreement because it has a true ring to it. I thought about it while I was planting my flowers in their fresh beds and I can’t agree. My mother and father weren’t old when they worked on our garden at Gumdale; my sister was only four years old when she was given “The Seven Dwarfs” as a present for being “the little gardener” of the family; I was twenty when I had my first garden plot; and nearly all professional gardeners were young when they started out.

I came inside and the door blew shut behind me. My hands and feet were frozen and filthy so I rushed upstairs and had a nice warm shower; and while I de-tangled my hair with conditioner and a comb, I still had the nice warm inner glow from being in the garden and thinking pleasant thoughts.

Abou Ben Adhem – James Henry Leigh Hunt

;